


Under The Bleeding Diamond

by ZuggyBoi



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls Online
Genre: Adventure & Romance, F/F, Imperial patriotism, Mild Blood, Mostly adventure really, My First Fanfic, No Alliance, Please be nice, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-01 07:11:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18331145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZuggyBoi/pseuds/ZuggyBoi
Summary: The Three Alliances of Tamriel are fighting each other for the Ruby Throne of Cyrodiil, stopping at nothing to claim their prized goal, all the while enemies both old and new are rising all around Dawn's Beauty in service to their dark masters. Will be one certain escaped Prisoner enough to stop the rising storm? Will she even want to? Roughly follows events of ESO.





	1. Chapter I

Wind. All she could sense and hear was wind howling around her. She was falling. While not a sensation she experienced often, even in her dazed state, she was rather certain she was falling down. Fast.

Then she was drowning. A panic began fastly replacing a little air she had in her lungs. Panic and fear. She pushed both aside by instinct. She opened her eyes for a moment, just to close them immediately after to escape the stings of salty water that was all around her. But that moment was enough. Turning in the direction she saw the light, she swam, her body wishfully desiring air that was so close, yet so far.

She emerged an eternity later, gasping for breath. Tremors were traveling across her body and the cold seawater was starting to seep into her skin. Her lungs could breathe again, but the panic created from the confusion remained.

Then, as always, the training set in. _“Calm down, take a deep breath if you are able and evaluate your current situation,”_ resonated in her head. She smiled. The Centurion’s words would probably echo in her mind until the rest of her days.

It was not that simple, however. Wounds she received during her escape from the Wailing Prison of Coldharbour were still making themselves know and tiredness was setting in. Swimming wasn’t helping either. Still, she thought, better to fall into a cold ocean rather than on a dry and very, very material land.

Eventually, calming down enough to properly look around her, she noticed the coast wasn’t actually far off. She had a clear view of a great volcano in the distance. The land itself was looking rather grim, with ash and rocks almost everywhere, broken only by small pockets of green. If she had to guess, she landed in Morrowind. The territory of a local militia alliance known as the Ebonheart Pact. A land of savages and Daedric worshippers, of alien fauna and flora that, according to her books and studies, was more hostile than even the most dangerous forest or marsh in Cyrodiil.

Joy.

After several minutes of swimming, it became indeed quite clear that her presumption was correct. After all, there was no other land in Tamriel that looked like Divines-forsaken wasteland with giant mushrooms and flying octopuses. Netch, that's the name of those creatures, if she recalled her classes of foreign provincial lands correctly. She had never been this part of the continent before, but it shouldn’t be, in essence, much different from the burning yellow sands of Alik’r Desert, where she, unfortunate as it was, spent quite a while. Or so she hoped anyway. She can deal with predictable… and there is no point in speculating about unpredictable. Another of her former Centurion’s wisdom.

After another tiring session of swimming she finally reached the shore - most of it ash, though there was some sand too - and, once out of the water’s reach, lied down and panted once more. The ash was black like coal and it covered her wet arms and ragged clothes. But it was stable, it didn’t move and it allowed her to rest, albeit rather uncomfortably if she was being honest. Still, good enough for the time being… actually, more than just ‘enough’. Much more.

It felt great. She could feel the ash below her body, see the clear sky, hear sounds of the sea’s waves crashing against nearby rocks. She was back on Nirn. Back on Tamriel. She was free! After losing hope of ever seeing her home, her family and friends again or even keeping her own mind, the unthinkable happened. She escaped the Coldharbour, realm of Lord of Brutality. She was free… But, of course, not without a price. The heroic Nord, who freed her from her cell and accompanied her through the dark halls during the Prison break, Lyris Titanborn, took the place of the mysterious blind man in robes, the so-called Prophet, in his own chains in order to free him. Only this selfless sacrifice allowed her and the man, who, come to think of it, couldn’t be anyone else than a Moth Priest, escape from the terrible realm.

Would she be able to do such an altruistic act? To give her own freedom in order to give a chance of potential freedom to another person?  
She always considered herself to be a fair and honourable woman, if a bit opportunistic (and other things), but willing to sacrifice her own good for the sake of others nonetheless.

So why couldn’t she give herself a straight answer without feeling that strange feeling in her gut?

Shaking her head and pushing the melancholy away, the ever-pragmatic Imperial had to focus on different matters now: mainly, her own situation and survival.

For starters; she was still wet, hungry, tired and in unknown, and quite certainly hostile territory. On the other hand, her training in the Legion paid off once again: she still had her pack, filled with some basic trinkets she managed to loot during her escape, ranging from a small rusty cutter, two small alchemy bottles, one with a dark red healing liquid, the other one now empty after its healing content was used earlier, to now wet piece of weird looking (but still consumable, as she well knows) bread. Once more, words of her former commanding officer rang in her ears.  
_“Every Imperial legionary carries their own gear. You are your own_ mules _, so you can’t blame anyone but yourself if you lose anything. Keep that in mind, ‘cause if anyone even just thinks about coming to me with a request for a new cup or knife or whatever I will throw so much guard duty on their sorry ass that they won’t sleep for a week!”_

He wasn’t exactly a pleasant guy. But he did get results. She didn’t recall a single incident with someone losing anything.

Pushing her thoughts aside, she groaned in frustration. Sitting now, she noticed the temperature was rather high, almost unpleasant even. While that by itself wasn’t much of a problem, thanks to her experience from Hammerfell, she knew that hot days in places like these usually promise cold nights.

It reminded her of her first true assignment in Alik'r Desert. Her squad was cut off the main force and they circled in the desert for three days straight, out of the water, on the mercy of sun during the day and merciless cold during the night. She really thought that she would end there... Until a caravan of kind Khajiit traders miraculously saved them.  
That being said, back then she at least had someone to rely on though. Now she was alone. Not the most pleasant thought…

Shaking her head again, the Cyrod tried to stand up. That made her long-ignored injuries cry out for attention. The majority of them were just simple cuts and bruises, nothing she couldn't deal with easily, but one wound on her abdomen was rather ugly. It was a burn from that damned fire atronach. The Daedra caught her off guard while trying to avoid that Akatosh damned Watcher. Feeling the heat, she turned only to be hit by a fireball. Her mana ward managed to deflect the force of the spell, but some of the fire itself got through and burned her belly in a nasty way. It wasn't a serious burn so she just shrugged it off and blasted the atronach with her own lighting. There were more pressing matters to focus on. But right now the injury decided to be more than just annoying, it seemed.

Growling, she laid once again and took out the stump of her last remaining healing potion and spilled half of it on the burn. The pain slowly eased, albeit it did not disappear altogether. The Imperial drank out the remains of the potion and started conjuring simple restoration spell. It wasn't easy. Restoration School requires focus and a clear mind, not to mention a well-rested body of the caster, to be truly effective. Resources she regrettably lacked right now. Giving a small prayer to Lady Mara, she laid down, letting the magic and potion do its job. That gave her time to analyze her situation more. She had to find something; be it a clean stream of water, or better yet, a settlement of some kind. She had to hope it would be a civilized one (or what stands for civilization in these lands anyway), for the tribal Dunmers weren't exactly known for their kind spirit and hospitality, especially to non-Dunmers, let alone Imperials like herself. The Four Score War ended centuries ago, but Dunmers, both Tribes, and the Houses, never forgot or forgave the Cyrodilic invasion.

Another thing was the separation from the Prophet. He was clearly not around and she was pretty certain he didn't even end up in the same location as her. That didn't surprise her. Long distance teleportation is risky, even more so without preparation, that much knows every mage. Teleportation from another plane of existence? By all accounts impossible, yet here she stood. She could only presume the same could be said about the blind old man. All she could do for him was to hope for his safety.

The battlemage sighted, realizing that the burn is gone, replaced by red and sensitive flesh. Good. One less problem to worry about… now only to deal with dozens of others. With another growl, she got up and looked around her. The beach was somewhat secluded by the rocks, limiting her view, she noticed. Well, that would change soon. She needed to decide what direction take and stick to it or she could just as well walk in circles. She had done that once before, back in the desert. Not an effective way how to get out of a sticky situation, that much was certain.

After a few dozen minutes of getting her blood running, she moved to the highest rock and started climbing. On top, she could see the area before her. It was about what she expected; just more ash with small islands of grass and rock. This was not good. Morrowind’s Ashlands were a vast area. Even more dangerous than the desert she campaigned in, mostly thanks to its varied wildlife and her current situation. The nearby Netches could kill her in few moments in her weakened state and those were the most docile animals around… that made her imagine an unpleasant image of being strangled by one of those flying octopuses. She would laugh at the stupidity of that thought, only if she didn't know it was very well possible. Now that would be a foolish death.

Through and through, the odds were against her. But Oblivion be damned if she would just stick around to wait for her death. Nope, not gonna happen. She's an Imperial. People of Cyrod don't give up so easily. She would survive or die trying… she quickly realized she, once again, quoted her Centurion. Finally seeing a pattern there, that unsettled her more than being killed by a Netch. Cringing, she set her storm-like grey eyes to the coastline. Sooner or later she was bound to find some kind of village there.  
Determination burning in her heart, the tired Octavia Carius took the first step out of the beach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you could probably guess, this is my first fanfiction (well first real one anyway that I decided to post on the net), so in the case anyone’s feeling generous - or actually reading this - please be kind, but just to this poor student with your reviews and comments (which are, naturally, always welcome! It’s the only kind of pay I get from this after all lol). Also apologies for any grammar and spelling mistakes, as English is not my native language. Lastly, I would like to upload a chapter every three or four days, if everything will go well in this strange realm of real life. That would be all. Thank you hundred times for reading and don’t forget, reviews/comments with pointers and critics are always welcomed with open arms!


	2. Chapter II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some violence and darker themes in this chapter, but for those who played ESO or any other TES games nothing new nor strange, I believe.

Naryu was irritated. That wasn't out of ordinary, not at all. She was like this most of the time when something was dragging for far too long. But now her already thin patience was being tested. Severely.

She had been stalking her pray for a month now, lurking in the backward alleys, watching her target with utmost dedication and subtlety, learning his routine, routes, companions, and contracts. It wasn't that hard too, for her prey, an Argonian slaver of all things (she didn't even know those existed before this writ) was moving around Ebonheart freely, with a carefree attitude like he owned the damned place. Which he didn't, of course. The Lizardfolk not bound in chains may have been a somewhat common sight in the city since the creation of the Pact but they were still frowned upon by most of the Dunmer population. But apparently, that didn't bug the bastard in the slightest. Naryu was quite certain why was that though.

Usually, a single slaver wouldn't be much of an importance to her superiors, no matter how unique given his race. But this changed dramatically when a small detail was discovered from a certain captured letter aimed for him from High Rock, of all places. Walks-In-Iron (he probably thought he was hilarious) was not selling just his brethren from the Black Marsh to occasional buyers, oh no. As was soon discovered, his 'goods' included other races as well. Other races like the Dark Elves of Morrowind. An Argonian selling Dunmers to slavery. To where and to whom precisely? No one knew, but one thing was certain. Such, as the Grandmaster put it, heresy would not go unpunished. A claim some important people, who were paramount to her organization, apparently shared. And thus young promising assassin, the protege of Master Varon Davel, Naryu Virian was dispatched. It was her first solo mission, but the young mer was confident in her own abilities. Naturally. She completed several writs already under the guidance of her teacher and she hadn't failed in any of them. This was no different from her previous contracts. If anything, it gave her more freedom, a fact she welcomed wholeheartedly. It was just so nice to not have her eternally grumpy mentor watching her every move all the time. Not that it changed anything. She would succeed nonetheless, with Varon watching or without.

Her job here was simple: watch the target, learn his contracts - or better yet, his customers - and when done strike the Lizard himself down. Yet what was supposed to be rather easy, and as she soon discovered, somewhat tiresome, assignment just became a little bit more interesting. And complicated. Naryu had everything ready to end this little game; the list of his contracts she copied from his own records was safely in her possession, even with some bonus names of his customers.

Last night, Naryu finally managed to sneak into his house on the edge of Ebonheart when the Lizard was occupied with drinking that disgusting beverage of his kind in the local tavern and successfully copied his record documents. It curiously contained a few Great Houses names as well. That would please the Grandmaster. His distaste for the Redoran and the Indroil was legendary in the guild. This should earn her some nice reward, hopefully in the form of advancement in rank. Higher position in Morag Tong hierarchy would allow her to take more entertaining assignments than watching fat Lizard walking around the town all the time. All that was left to do was to get rid of the slaver himself.

The assassin picked late evening for the deed. Walks-In-Iron would take his usual route to the inn through the Ebonheart park. In the middle of the park was a nicely secluded pool, usually devoid of any activity in these late hours. Naryu would kill the Saxhleel, drag his body to the clearing and hide it in the bush. That should give her more than enough time to leave the city and surrounding area in peace and gratulate herself for the job well done. Yet something unexpected happened. Naryu frowned when Walks-In-Iron did not take his usual route. Instead, he hectically walked out of his house and marched to the stables where he climbed up to a covered carriage that did not waste any time taking off. That send ice to her veins. Has she been spotted? Was the Argonian aware of her presence and decided to run off? If it would turn out to be so, it would mark her mission as only partly successful. She could kiss a promotion farewell if it would be so, at least for the time being. But after a short moment of consideration Naryu declined that possibility. There was a rush in his moves, yes, but no panic. Certainly not of a person who believed he had to get out of the city before a dagger would find his throat.

Naryu considered for a moment simply stealing some horse from the public stables outside of the city to follow the carriage, but that would be foolish. She didn't waste a month with hiding in filthy dark alleys just to blow up her cover now in such cliché way. Not to mention that Walks-In-Iron's mercenaries were waiting right before the carriage and took off with him. Naryu was good, but fighting a band of heavily armored thugs unprepared was not her idea of fun. No, she would lay low, wait for the Argonian to return and will deal with the slaver after that in privacy. Her objective was almost done. No point in complicating things. He would be back.

She had to wonder though… the Lizard was a perfectionist to a fault, strange as it was with his kind. This had to be rather important business, to make him disturb his routine just like that. She didn't notice any changes in his behavior earlier and few of her own contracts in this city didn't mention anything significant happening either. But it hardly mattered, really. He will be back eventually, that much was certain. The guards still stood before his house and she didn't notice any packages with him. Leaving for a longer period of time all his work behind would be catastrophic for his business. No, he will be back. All she had to do was to be patient… no matter how much irritating this change of her plans was, she had to be patient. After all, everything comes to those who wait, as the human saying goes.

Narrowing her eyes in frustration, Naryu turned her back to the house and calmly left her hiding spot in shadows, disappearing in the crowd.

The cultist pulled the chain connected to her iron cellar harshly, making her lose balance and, with both arms chained behind her back, meeting the cold stone floor with her face. Sharp pain immediately let her know that her nose took the worst of the blow. She wanted to scream but the ragged cloth in her mouth prevented her to do so.

_"Get up, whore" growled the cultist - for he certainly was a one, his long ornamented black robe speaking volumes of his life profession - and pulled the chain once more. "Our King is not one for delays, so get up or you will wish for slow and painful death… Not that you will escape it either way, but you get the point, don't you?" laughed the man, lifting his black spiked mace, now with a tint of perverted humor in his voice. Not waiting for an answer he pulled once again, but this time she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of hurting her. She got up, reminding herself of slashes on her body from something she could only guess was supposed to be some kind of ritualistic torture and resumed her walk behind the bastard. The cultist just turned around and continued in his descent to even darker corridors than the one they were currently in._

_She recognized the architecture, even though she was never in this particular area before. They were in the sewers beneath the Imperial City, though instead of warm orange fire usually present in the corridors, this hall was weakly lighted by blue fire in crude chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. She could see the trails of blood on the floor and walls, as she could still hear the screams in the distance, both far and near._

_She often liked to think that fear was a rare occurrence to her, a scarce and momentary emotion that passed once logic and reason set it, but after the endless torture - though considering she could still stand and walk it was done either with skill or didn't took that long at all - she felt the icy grip of fear now more than ever before. She somewhat knew what awaited her. And that sent shivers echoing through her body. The only thing that was keeping her from collapsing was her often prized willpower and her pride, but even the former one was running short while the latter was just a distant and demolished memory now. She would maybe even wish for an end if she wouldn't suspect what that would bring._

_Another scream filled the hallway, this time much closer. "Well, would you look that! It seems we're just right on schedule" chuckled the cultist, albeit weakly. He too knew what was happening just a few steps before him. The King wouldn't tolerate disturbances of any kind._

_They both left the hallway and entered a giant room filled with people. 'Some sort of former cistern perhaps?' thought Octavia, trying to preoccupy her mind. It didn't quite work. She quickly noticed most of the people in it too were wearing black robes or armor. But there were prisoners as well, all different. There was a group of bloodied Khajiit, on the left two skinny Bretons and some tall Nords behind them. She could see a few Altmer, Bosmer and Dunmer too. But no matter their race or their tattered clothes all looked much alike; beaten, tired, docile… broken. A wave of sadness filled her heart. No one deserved this fate, yet here they were. The Worm Cult didn't discriminate after all. Everyone was a worthy sacrifice to their dark lord, no matter race, gender or profession... But right now it didn't matter who they were, a broken prisoner awaiting their fate or a robed cultist with a black heart, for all had their eyes fixed on a single figure._

_The King of Worms. Arch-Necromancer Mannimarco the Traitor was standing proudly on the highest ceremonial platform that was located in the center of the room. He clearly just finished his most recent sacrifice. An unfortunate Imperial was pulled off the black altar, leaving another trail of blood behind him, before he and the cultists who dragged him disappeared in a dark hall at the end of the room. Octavia could feel the corruption of this place, the evil magicka that literally filled the air. It was sickening._

_"Ah, there you are" smiled the pale Altmer who had the undivided attention of everyone in the room, now fixating his own sight upon her. She could feel her heart skipping a beat. That was clearly a signal for her handler to pull the chain once more, this time walking straightforward to the sacrificial altar._

_She resisted. She couldn't end like this! 'Divines, Lord Akatosh, anyone, you can't let this atrocity happen!' she screamed in her mind. She did things that haunted her, but did she deserved THIS? Did ANYONE deserve this? Her own soul being damned from the Aetherius forevermore?_

_But the Divines remained silent. The same couldn't be said about Mannimarco though. "You know, I have waited a long time for this, my dear"... What was he talking about? While she knew of him she never saw this mockery of a person before! What did he mean by that? Did she cross his plans somehow? How? And if so, did it bring at least some harm to his schemes? That would be at least a small comfort in this sea of misery._

_Her thoughts were cut short, as was her tiny hope for some satisfaction, as two more cultists pulled her straight on the altar where they bound her like some sacrificial animal. She saw blood on it. Divines, so much blood, both old and new... How many souls met their end here already?_

_Mannimarco was clearly not interested in any kind of conversation despite his previous claim, though he watched her with a small cruel smirk on his pale face. While she was being held by the icy chains on the cold white stone, Mannimarco lifted his Daedric blade up in one hand, the other holding a soul gem._

_He finally spoke again. "Are you confused? Why you? What have you done to earn my attention? Do not fret small human, for you did nothing." He smiled again. "But someone close to you did. And now he has to pay the price." His smile grew even bigger. "We can't just let some fool try to dictate our actions, can we now? You understand that an example is needed. A manifesto, you could say." What was he babbling about? Most of her relatives but a few were dead, and those few close to her who held any kind of power to cross the necromancer would either be too scared or wouldn't care at all. Mannimarco spoke again, this time loudly for everyone in the room to hear. "Now, know, that I, loyal servant of Molag Bal, the Lord of Brutality, sentences you to your damnation for the crimes you committed against us and our eternal lord. Know that your animus is cast into the darkness for your actions. Know this and be reborn in our lord's embrace."_

_With those chilling final words, the King of Worms sent the knife down, cutting short her panicked and confused thoughts. And then there was only pain._

_Pain and darkness._

Octavia opened her eyes with a gasp, once again completely wet, just this time with her own sweat. What was that? She never had such a vivid dream - or a nightmare - before! She could still hear the screams in the distance and feel the cold blade of murder's dagger piercing her skin. Shaking, she saw stars above her. Closing her eyes again, she tried to slow down her breathing, while also trying to lose stiff muscles.

Once that done, she thought over her nightmare. After a moment of consideration, she couldn't say she was actually that surprised it happened. She thought she will lose her mind from fear back then. It had some effect on her mind, clearly. She was never afraid of death, not really. Every soldier expects to die at any given moment for the cause. Such is the life in the Legions. In any army, really.

She never feared death until it actually came for her that day. But it wasn't just a matter of dying that caused so much fear. It was about having her own soul damned. Could someone face such fate and remain calm? The Imperial shivered. She didn't think so. No one deserved such fate. And after she felt the cruelty of Coldharbour on her own that notion was only reinforced hundredfolds…

She was still laying, her head on her bag, in her provisional camp that she set up after her miraculous discovery of a small stream, thoughts racing through her mind.

Then a raspy voice pulled her from her thoughts from it in an instant.

"Apologies dryskin, but business is business, you understand."

Before she could do anything in her sleepy state a hard blow hit her head and the world dissolved in the darkness once again.


	3. Chapter III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for any grammar mistakes and overall lack of elegance of the text. My friend, who acts as my faithful beta reader, is currently busy. I will update this and any following chapters once he's back in business.

In retrospect, this was a pretty good day, Meer-Dum pondered. Known to both his "friends" and opponents alike as Walks-in-Iron (hilarious when one considers his profession, no?), the Saxhleel was very pleased with today’s events. It all started when an unannounced messenger from the Ashlanders arrived. He didn't expect much back then. Those savage elves were, despite their strange sense of honour, rather unreliable when it came to matters that should somehow concern him and his business, as he soon learned after making a contact with them. They weren’t doing it on purpose of course, but you could hardly expect from a bunch of nomadic elves a keen eye for fine specimens the Argonian desired for his profession. The rather ironic reversal of natural order of things, Dark Elves being worse at hunting slaves than a Saxhleel, he thought with mild amusement. 

So he was uncertain if this was truly worth the effort when a young nervous mer appeared on his doorstep. But the courier swore on Mephala's name that this was worthwhile of his precious time. His initial skepticism disappeared altogether when the young Dark Elf, disguised as a typical House Dunmer, told him of his Tribe's discovery.

A young human woman had appeared not far from their camp. She naturally remained unaware of their presence, much likely thanks to her obvious exhaustion and natural ability of Ashlanders to remain unseen in their land if they wished so, said the tribesmen.

Now, this was just mildly intriguing. You don't see much wanderers, humans no less, in the Ashlands. But it happened from time to time. And if those souls were unfortunate enough to either get lost in the ash dunes or worse, get captured by one of the more savage Tribes, a very unpleasant fate awaited them. That being said, why did the Tribe's Wise Woman decide to bring this to his attention? Did she wish to finally repay her Tribe’s debt to him? If so, Meer-Dum was not impressed.

He saved their Tribe from House Hlaalu enforcers once. As it was, he didn't plan that to happen. He wasn't aware of any Ashlanders at all actually, but he did need to get rid off those Hlaalu pests that kept interfering with his business with their own hunting. Danger business that, standing in a way in one of the Great Houses, but a little bribe here and there and all is well and forgotten with the Hlaalu, like it never happened. The gold always rang louder to them than their compatriots' lives. Walks-in-Iron liked that about them. Reminded him of himself, in a more way than just one.

At the end of the day though, the House elves that were messing with his operations were lying dead on the ground while his mercenaries stood victorious. The Tribe's Wise Woman - Bodani - proclaimed him as their savior and promised to repay their debt. Initially, she probably thought that he and his mercenaries, which were mostly other Argonians with a similar mindset to his own (that being more gold never hurts), were escaped slaves, considering their race. Only later did she learned of his true profession and her attitude towards him cooled significantly, almost to the point of open hostility. The Ashlanders weren’t apparently very keen on slavers, it seemed. But he did save her Tribe and she did make a promise to repay for his unexpected - and now perhaps even unwanted - assistance. Considering the Ashlander Tribe would never break a promise once given, a deal was struck.

The Wise Woman suggested repayment in some magic trinkets and other items that could potentially be sold for large sums of drakes first, but the slaver refused all such offers. Walks-in-Iron had a much more effective (and hopefully profitable) suggestion in mind. The Ashlanders would become his eyes and ears in the Ashlands for the time being. All he required was someone worth his attention, someone special. Someone worth a lot of shiny gold. Bodani reluctantly agreed. The Ashlands were a vast and dangerous place, but they offered a good hiding spot from authorities and other various kinds of enemies (as Walks-in-Iron knew from personal experience), if one managed to stay alive in them. So it did sometimes spew out interesting individuals.

The Saxhleel felt a small smile tugging at his reptilian face when he recalled the memory. It was a good exchange… for him anyway, and that was all that mattered.

Yet now the Argonian had troubles seeing how one weak, barely alive woman was worth the effort. Bodani was aware that Walks-in-Iron didn't take just anyone. He made that clear. Unusual was his specialty. His goods were slaves of unique traits. Such as those Dunmer twins he sold to some nobles in High Rock. Another nice memory. He did enjoy the irony of it, oh yes. No matter his own non-existent morals, beaten out of him long ago by his own former masters, he never forgot the cruelty he met from the hands of his Indoril owners before the formation of the Pact. Yes, he enjoyed the irony of it indeed.

He also understood that the Ashlanders were willing only to inform him of the potential prey’s location, not to actually capture it and bring it to him. They may be in debt, but they still have their idiotic sense of honour.

Yet the courier soon revealed the woman was not that common. Before falling from exhaustion she had surrounded her camp with magical runes, very well hidden too apparently. The Ashlanders spotted them only because of their perfect knowledge of the terrain and sheer luck. Anyone else would have gotten a lightning bolt to their face in no time.

That earned the messenger his full and undivided attention. A mage? An alone sorceress - or someone who was simply adept at arcane arts - capable of surviving in the Ashlands for more than five minutes? One that supposedly cast runes that even the Ashlanders were wary of detonating? That was rare. Unprecedented even. Most of her kind stuck in groups, be it in the Mages Guild, army subgroups or other similar organizations. They certainly didn't wander around the wilderness alone. Not the sane ones anyway. But no way to know the current state of his prey now. So he allowed himself to presume the optimal scenario - that the woman was at least in a decent state of mind. Not many offers for insane slaves, unfortunately.

A sly smile appeared on the Lizard's face. The Ashlander internally cringed at the sight but said nothing.

Meer-Dum pointed to the door. "I believe it's time for me to pay your most esteemed Tribe a visit then," he said and walked with surprising agility out of the room, soon followed by the troubled young mer.

Later that day, Meer-Dum was riding his guar in front of the carriage back towards Ebonheart with a grin only rarely seen on his scaled face. Everything had gone absolutely splendidly, despite one or two nerve-racking moments. Before he left the house he ordered his servant to aware the mercenaries to gather up before the stables with a carriage and guars ready. After several minutes he hastily followed with the Ashlander tagging behind him. They set off immediately.

The journey was rather short, taking just under two hours, mostly thanks to the fact that the Tribe was living close to the Ebonheart, hidden in their own secluded - but apparently not exactly hidden - village among the dark rocky dunes of the Ash Mountain. Quite bold of them, in Meer-Dum’s opinion, as illustrated by their problems with the Hlaalu. But that was their thing and the slaver cared little for their problems. By the time the messenger announced they had arrived, Bodani and two more Dark Elves clad in brown chitin armor were already waiting for them.

"My most dear Bodani, I was not expecting to see you here personally," greeted Walks-in-Iron the elder woman, his voice full of sugar. Bodani gave him an unimpressed look in return. "Leave your honey words for someone who cares for them, Argonian," she growled "and let us get this over with. We're willing to help you to get to this human, but you will swear on your forefathers that you will consider our debt paid and will never speak to us or of our village again. To anyone. Break this and there will be consequences," spoke Bodani in cold, calculated voice that rang with authority. She meant it, Meer-Dum knew. Her warning was unneeded. He was very well aware of what happened to those who crossed Dunmer Tribes, no matter how docile. Still, he was pleasantly surprised by her offer to help them. He expected to just show them the human's campsite, but this was a welcome change of plans nonetheless. She really wanted to be out of this deal as soon as possible, realized the slaver with some humor. Just as well. If all will go just as planned, this whole ordeal would be over for both of them. 

"I'm humbled to accept your offer to assist us," Walks-in-Iron smiled unpleasantly, accompanied with a small, but clearly mocking bow, "and I swear to the Hist I will never speak of your village ever again. You have my word." Bodani simply nodded, now with a carefully neutral face. "Follow us then," she said and marched east, her companions and the messenger following her. Walks-in-Iron growled at his own man and followed the savages.

The journey took them a few minutes and lead them quite away from the road, but now they crouched on a small, rocky peak, peering at the little campsite below. Indeed, there she was, a woman, an Imperial or Breton if he had to guess, recumbent before her now cold tiny campfire. Sleeping in the Ashlands was dangerous, even for a mage. If the various poisonous insects wouldn't bite you then an ash storm could bury you alive in a second notice. "Are you certain that she lives?" asked Walks-in-Iron, a bit of apprehension in his voice. He really hoped he didn’t waste the whole journey for a body. "Yes, we are certain," said Bodani, but didn't elaborate more. The Saxhleel just sighed in annoyance and decided to move on. "So, I take it you will remove the runes? That would help us best."

Bodani just nodded, gestured with her hand to her two companions and started whispering words in a language that was unknown to him. The chanting sent chills down his spine. Meer-Dum never liked the magic. It made things complicated and was unpredictable. Everything would be more simple if the magicka simply disappeared.

After a few moments, the air became unusually cool for Morrowind, even for these relatively late cold hours. A tiny but still noticeable sound of cracking glass followed. It was a strange noise. It was low, but they could clearly hear it even from their spot, at least two hundred meters away from the campfire and his soon-to-be prize.

He could see the human stiffing, but she was still sleeping. Good. Having her up and running, blasting spells all around was the last thing anyone here wanted.

Now when was their work done Bodani and her tribesman turned around and disappeared to the rocky wasteland. Their contract was fulfilled and they didn’t wish to spend time in slavers presence. Fine with him.

Walks-in-Iron shook his head and moved his claws in a clear sign. His four bodyguards started moving towards the human. Three of them moved to encircle the prey and stopped some five meters before the sleeping women. The fourth one, Saxhleel women named Tana-Li, was moving ever closer with her club ready. All she needed to do was to smash the mage on her head.

Then the women woke up. She gasped as her entire body stiffened, but other than that didn’t move at all. All thugs froze on their spots, too afraid to move, fearing a single small notion would lit them ablaze. Yet the woman's eyes closed once again. She was shaking, clearly, Meer-Dum could see that from his safe spot. Apparently, it weren’t his thugs what woke her up. Curious. Perhaps a nightmare? A vision? Sorcerers had those, right? Whatever the cause, the women remained miraculously unaware of their presence. Good. Then they still had a chance to finish their job without bloodshed. Quality mercenaries are hard to come by these days, thanks to the war and all. The woman was still lying on the ash, with a bag under her head. Her breathing started to slow down. She was either careless or had too much confidence in her runes. She didn't even bother to check her surroundings after waking up. Well, too bad for her.

Tana-Li began moving again, very carefully, while the rest was prepared to jump at the prey in a moment notice, now that initial panic passed. Fortunately, Argonians were very skilled in the art of sneaking and Tana-Li even more so. Soon the remaining gap between her and the human was gone. She spoke.

Even Meer-Dum good ears couldn't hear what his mercenary said, but the woman's eyes snapped open. Then a wooden club hit her head and sent her back to unconsciousness. Meer-Dum shook his head at such unneeded theatrics from his companion, but the job was done. That’s what mattered.

Now the woman, an Imperial, as Walks-in-Iron presumed correctly earlier, was safely chained back in the carriage, unable to move her hands or legs, let alone cast any flashy spell thanks to the runes on her chains. He knew one of the trinkets of his now long dead egg-sister’s would come in handy sometimes. Still smiling, he thought about this day. In the morning he didn't expect this to be anything but an ordinary Middas, but how splendidly everything turned out! He let a small raspy laugh escape his lips. Sometimes, just sometimes, life was really worth living.


	4. Chapter IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I apologize for the lower quality of grammar. My friend should be available soon, so hopefully the chapters should be readable again in the near future. O.O

This was getting ridiculous, Naryu thought with her brows furrowed. Walks-in-Iron returned from his small trip to who-knows-where in a surprisingly good mood, to her growing irritation. She was sneaking through filth and that s’wit dared to grin? She will enjoy this kill, oh yes she will. 

He and his bunch of idiots returned to Ebonheart during the night, few hours before the dawn. Naryu was questioning by then if standing a watch was worth it, but her patience was rewarded eventually, just as she knew it will. The slaver and his thugs walked into the city, the covered carriage from earlier following them. The Morag Tong assassin wondered what was inside of it, naturally. She would bet all her shein bottles that it was what made the Argonian grin like an idiot. 

Her suspicions were proven correct when the carriage stopped before his walled house. Well, manor more like, Naryu thinks. How no one questioned that an Argonian owned such big property was beyond her. The building was located at the edge of the city, just a few steps from the docks. That it made sense, considering his business. Docks offered a convenient way of dispatching his “goods”, and if needed, a relatively quick escape route. The latter didn’t bother Virian much though. One strike was all she needed. 

The thugs dragged an unconscious human woman of medium height and with a blonde hair out of the transport and took her into the house. She was bound by shackles that softly glowed with a red light. There were runes on those irons. A mage perhaps? Those weren’t that common. Most of the casters she knew of were either (in)famous Telvanni, Mages Guild members or those few in the Tong.  
That would explain Walks-in-Iron positive attitude, she assumed. Rare goods meant expensive and she already learned that this Argonian valued gold above all else. A strange trait for a Lizard to have, she thought, but exceptions prove the rule. Still, this hardly mattered, nothing changed with her plans as it was.

Naryu didn’t notice any slaves but typical servants during her time unofficial visit there. She wouldn’t be surprised if there were cells in the cellar though. Many Dunmer mansions had those. Usually not for the slaves though. There were often other reasons. She didn’t bother thinking about those. Some Dunmeri nobles had apparently a thing for being more… excessive, even more so than the rest of her people. Naryu knew that unfortunately all too well. Sneaking into noble’s houses was nothing new to her. If anything, however, this would only make his choice of home more logical. A feature like your very own built-in prison would surely serve the slaver well. 

She had seen enough for now. Walks-in-Iron was back and she will be able to proceed with her plans tomorrow. Just a few more hours and this all will be just another step in her career.  
She yawned. This was a long night. At least a few hours of sleep would do her well. Realizing this, Naryu turned around and started walking in the direction of her hideout. 

But the chance to finish the job never came. The slaver didn't leave his house for another three days.

And that drove Naryu mad. Why wasn’t he following his schedule? Until the trip that lizard was more predictable than Alinor clock in his moves. Above all else, she already reported through their network - coded short messages in one of the three Morag Tong hideouts in the city that were frequently visited by hired beggars who delivered those letters to messengers - that she copied his notes and documents. All that was left to do was the kill itself. And that was supposed to be done days ago. But it wasn’t. She now regretted her overconfidence to aware her master of her supposed complete success so early. That could harm her reputation. She had to act now, the circumstances be damned. She was patient long enough. Now was time for action.

His house was relatively well protected, especially with him in it. That complicated things. Her last visit was a fast use of glyph that copied the content of his record book when he was away. Actual assassination inside his own home was risky. Morag Tong rules were clear; eliminate only targets with a sanctioned writ on them. Strike anyone else down and there will be consequences. More bodies meant more troubles, especially if those bodies included local guard forces, which Naryu was certain Walk-in-Iron’s thugs would call immediately. And more troubles was the last thing anyone in Morag Tong wished for. 

Clearly, the optimal - and only - option was careful infiltration. Her best bet would be through the backyard and use a nearby tree to get on the middle-level terrace of the house. Both his office and room were on the third floor and getting there won’t be easy. Even on her last visit, the house contained at least three servants and three guards. If any of them would raise an alarm this would get so much harder fast. She may be able to cut her way through his thugs but by then the city guard would most likely arrive and killing them with their numerical superiority - which would be a feat in itself, even for her - would earn her a quick death from her own organization. 

All things considered, this was a bad idea. But her reputation was at stake. Considering all, the risks were worth it. 

With this thought Naryu left her familiar hiding spot and began moving nimbly towards the backyard of slaver’s manor, using shadows as cover.

Octavia was weak. Her last “true” meal was a while ago. Some bug she managed to kill with a well-aimed ice shard back in the Ashlands. It was disgusting, even when cooked. Her father wouldn’t approve of how far she fell, she was certain, but oh well. Desperate times…  
When still following the coastline the thirst for water begun being unpleasant. She knew that finding water was a priority before hoping to stumble upon any form of civilization, and proceeded further into the mainland, hoping for a clean pool or a stream. After several hours of rising desperation, she finally found one such stream, small and with a grey tint of ash, but she didn’t complain. Half a loaf was better than none, even if that loaf was potentially poisoned. And indeed, the water (or perhaps the bug?) gave her stomach ache later on, but she somehow survived. Before collapsing with a bag under her head, she set up her small campfire next to her. Would be pretty embarrassing to freeze during the night after all of this. Her plan was to return to the coast after trying to renew some of her energy and continue in search of civilization, but apparently, “civilization” decided to find her first. 

She woke up in a cell, confused and scared at the familiarity of this situation. She was bound again, lying on a floor with chains that connected her to the wall beside her. Was she captured by the Worm Cult again? Did she escape the Lord of Brutality only to be dragged back to him once more? 

Fear and panic were trying to find a way into her soul again, but Octavia refused to let them in. Those wouldn’t help her, not to mention she had enough of those for a lifetime. Instead, she started analyzing her surroundings and using logic rather than raw emotions. That always helped.

Soon, she calmed down a bit. The cell was unfamiliar, not surprisingly, but did not resemble “hospitality” of the Worm Cult. There was no blood, no screams from the next cell. There was also a lack of that evil corruption in the air…

 

She frowned. There was a lack of any magicka in the air. 

It was then when she noticed her bounds were more than just black iron chains. There was a glim red glow underneath her wrist irons. Runes. Binding runes, to be precise. From what she could see of the glyphs, it was crafted crudely, but effectively enough. She now recognized the lack of familiar feeling of her magicka regeneration. 

After a while of sitting on the cold floor, her mind full of hatchling plans that were being created, processed and scrambled, the windowless door to her cell opened with a bang. A tall Nord stood in it, with a bored expression on his face. He didn’t say a word when he came closer to her bindings and filled bowl next to her with - thankfully - clear water. Then he dropped a piece of bread next to it and left. 

Octavia was silent through the ordeal that took less than thirty seconds, but her mind was racing. Who were these people? The Nord’s armor, while somewhat ragged, did not at all resemble black ornamented robes of the Worm Cult. It didn’t any proper identification at all actually… Bandits? What reason would they have to keep her alive though? While it was a possible scenario, it was unlikely. So perhaps some kind of mercenaries? Hunters?...

Or slavers. Burning sensation of anger erupted on her skin. Was she captured by slavers? She was in Morrowind after all, it was a possible scenario. It would explain why they imprisoned her and fed her instead of outright killing her.

Thoughts circled in her mind until the door opened again sometime later.

This time, it was an Argonian that visited her, a male in expensive clothes and a sly smile that made her want to throw a fireball to his face. All in due time. 

“I see you’re finally awake. Splendid.” He gestured to the chains with his claws. “I hope you are enjoying my hospitality? It’s not every day I have the honour to host a spell caster,” said the Saxhleel. There was a satisfaction in his voice. 

“I’ve seen worse.” A correct statement if there was ever one, Octavia thought. “But in those cases at least I knew who I was guest to,” she stated with steady and polite voice.

For a moment the Saxhleel was silent, clearly not expecting anything besides either pleading or anger. Well, too bad for him. If she wouldn’t cover before Dremora, she would hardly hide before this fool. Then the moment passed and he flashed her a smile. “Ah, silly me, where are my good manners? I erect the spine of apology. I am Walks-in-Iron, a fair trader.” 

She really doubted he meant that latter part. And the former too, for that matter.  
And that name... Yup, a slaver. An Argonian slaver. With a name as subtle as a sledgehammer. In any other situation this would actually be a pretty good concept for a comedy, Octavia thought. Nibenese theatres would have a field day with it. She somehow doubted he meant that latter part of his introduction seriously though. And the former too, for that matter. 

“The pleasure is all mine, mister. May I ask for the reason behind this visit, however? This doesn’t look like a social call,” said the Imperial while nonchalantly trying to stretch her bound arms.

“Regrettably so, it is indeed not a one. As for your question, I don’t intend anything but to sell you, of course. Surely, smart woman like you know that your kind is quite requested in some parts of Tamriel,” spoke Walks-in-Iron, dropping the charade, but still with a smile on his thin lips. “To be precise, I even already have a buyer for you. Some Telvanni wizard apparently needs assistants with a magic aptitude for her experiments. If I understood correctly, a testing sheep. Sounds fun, doesn’t it?” 

Octavia narrowed her eyes. “If you think I will let myself drag to some Divines-forgotten island to be a toy of some old elven witch, you’re really more stupid than you look.”

“Touching, but flattery won’t help you. She may be a witch, but so are you. The difference is, my dear, that she is a witch with a shiny coin to offer. You are not.” His sight fell to the wrist irons. “What do you want to do anyway? Curse me with your magic? We both know that won’t happen. Those runes were crafted by my very own egg-sister, the best enchanter around even in those cursed lands. Just accept your fate and all will be easier. Trust me, I witnessed that many times over.” He made a few steps towards her while Octavia watched him with a carefully compensated face. “And who knows? Perhaps you will even start enjoying yourself! I was told you witches understand each other like no one else.” 

He expected some kind of comeback, but the Imperial was silent. Walks-in-Iron ever-present smile grew larger as he stepped closer. “In a sense, you own me. Without my timely rescue, it was likely you would die in the Ashlands. So really, you ought to behave. It’s not nice to show disrespect to your saviors.” He was almost openly laughing now, mere three steps before the bound women. Oh, he was enjoying this just too much. “Ran out of words?” he asked.

Flames were his answer. 

His yelp of surprise and terrified look that came next for a mere second made this almost alone worth it. Of course, Octavia’s main aim was to kill him, not just to terrify him, when she burst orange flames out of her mouth. It was a weak demonstration to her great disappointment, but she did this only twice before in her life, in a much better state than she was in right now at that. 

You see, there is a funny thing about magicka-restraining runes. Only the most well-crafted ones actually block the use of magicka through hindering the ability to cast. The massive majority, including those she wore right now, just restrained the flow of magicka in the prisoner’s body, not removed it. She was unable to regenerate her magicka, but the energy that was in her body when the chains were put on remained. That’s why the accepted tactics were always to wear out the mage first, or summon another mage to drain magicka from their body, before putting on the enchanted restrains. That was the caster was truly harmless when it came to magic. 

But clearly, Walks-in-Iron wasn’t aware of this. And now it costed him. 

Her own remaining supply of magicka was just barely enough for one spell. Or so she thought anyway. Octavia’s flames lashed out with only token strength. Enough to scorch most of the slaver’s face, but considering his screams and frantic movements he was, regrettably, still very much alive. 

Among other traits of restraining runes, and most of the runes in general, was a necessity for a link among the glyph and caster themselves. Considering Walks-in-Iron sister was dead, the runes must have found another source of power, most certainly her closest blood relative, when he was close enough for the runes to recognize him. Or in other words, the man who was grabbing his face before her now was literally key to her freedom.

His screams of pain did bring her some joy, to her shame. But she always hated slavery, even before being in such close proximity to it. He chose his fate willingly. 

Two guards, a Saxhleel woman and the Nord from earlier, immediately ran into the small dark room that was her cell, summoned by the cries of pain. They saw Octavia was still bound, but their employer was lying on the cold floor, screaming and holding his scorched face scales. Their confusion was clear, but after a She-Argonian recovered first from their shock and ran to Octavia, hitting her straight to the face, putting her out once more. 

Tana-Li was nervous. She didn’t know precisely why, but her scales were itching in that unpleasant way like something bad was about to happen. Which was weird, because the past three days were nothing short of being unpleasant. Walks-in-Iron injuries weren’t life-endangering, but they were extremely painful, at least according to his healer. The boss himself hasn’t left his room since they brought him there, grounded on the bed as he was. Most of his face was burned to a cinder and his left eye was lost. According to the Redguard cleric that they summoned immediately after moving the boss out of the women’s cell Walks-in-Iron needed to remain calm and let the healing potions and his own body do the job. She honestly doubted he will ever get out of it, but the healer said the burns are mostly just superficial and that he will be back on his legs in few weeks. The thing is, Tana-Li couldn’t give a damn about the state of her employer, not on any personal level anyway. That bastard had it coming for a long time. What troubled her, however, was her pay. While Walks-in-Iron was always generous with gold, strangely enough, given his greed, he was also a vengeful person too. If she will be lucky he will only focus on the Imperial witch when he gets up. But if she won’t be lucky… well, then she can kiss this job goodbye. Not that she would miss this place or the people, but she would certainly miss the gold. Not many were willing to employ an Argonian in Morrowind. Not with this pay anyway.

Her stream of thoughts was interrupted by cold wind howling through the hall. She turned around and walked on the other side of the hallway, confused. The study terrace door was open. Strange, she could swear those were closed tight when she passed them a minute ago. Shrugging, she closed them again, this time locking them. It was just two hours since the moons appeared, but she didn’t want to risk anything right now, let alone thieves. Shrugging, she turned around and continued in her patrol.

And by the Hist, that annoying itching was back, stronger than ever. Just great. 

It was getting difficult to stay awake, but she had to. The slavers stopped giving her food altogether, although water remained. She didn’t know why they bothered. Did they still plan to sell her? Or did they kept her alive to just be able to experience revenge of her captor when he recovered, whenever that may be?

Truth to be told, she didn’t care. The only important thing was to gain her freedom back. How? She wasn’t quite certain yet in that area. The plan with fire breath was her best shot, but it was clearly not enough. And considering the runes still glowed, the slaver was indeed still alive. She didn’t envy him that though. His burns looked painful enough. 

She fell asleep only a few times, always waking up from her recurring nightmares to just experience another. There wasn’t much to do. She was out of options far as she knew, for the time being. So she would wait. Like in Coldharbour, the rescue may come in the most unexpected time and way. She just needed to be ready and not to lose hope. And she won’t be caught unaware again, and neither will she despair. Octavia had full confidence she will get out of this. One way, or another. All she needed to do was to be patient for the opportunity to present itself.


End file.
